


Drink All My Thoughts (Cause I Can't Stand Them)

by sheerdelight



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Explicit Consent, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Trans Beauregard (Critical Role)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 20:04:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19410433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheerdelight/pseuds/sheerdelight
Summary: Jester needs comforting after leaving Yasha behind in the King's Cage. She seeks it out in Beau.





	Drink All My Thoughts (Cause I Can't Stand Them)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from dodie's "Intertwined." I feel like pulling titles for Beaujester/Jestergard fics from dodie songs is like a tradition at this point.
> 
> The first in a series of three - this one, this one but from Beau's POV, and a reunion threesome from Yasha's POV in like four months.

Jester volunteers to take all three watches that night. She knows she’s not going to be able to fall asleep, not with the way worries rattle around in her skull like hail and she feels as though there’s electricity conducting itself through her bones, like her skeleton is made of weather vanes and they’re all being struck by lightning. She shrugs off Caduceus, Caleb’s gentle concern, Fjord’s plain-wrought worry. She has to be able to make something good come out of this state she’s in, and her friends need sleep at least as much as she might; if she can spare even one or two of them a night’s watch, perhaps it’s not as terrible as it feels that she feels like this. Plus also, she just wants the rest of them to _go to bed_ so that she can cry without having to worry about anyone noting her tears.   
  
“I don’t need a partner,” she says brightly, brittle-smiled. “I can watch by myself. You need rest, all of you. Go to bed,” and the boys are all bloodied and bruised enough that eventually they relent. Nott has been passed out in a drunken stupor since sometime on the moorbounders, and Jester can’t even find it in herself to blame her right now. Beau packs in beside her, though. She doesn’t say anything, just sets her folded bedroll down on the floor and drops cross-legged onto it a foot away from Jester. _Let me cry, Beau, please_ , Jester thinks, although she knows Beau isn’t really stopping her, wouldn’t stop her; it was Beau, after all, who told her she would be proud to see Jester angry, back on the Ball-Eater. But Jester can’t bring herself to tears. She sits breathing deeply, tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth to keep her sobs at bay, until the silence between herself and Beau has gone on for an hour or so, building up pressure until it feels like it needs shattering or it will crush them both.

“That wasn’t Yasha, was it?” Jester asks. Her eyes start to sting as her tongue moves, but the pressure in her chest abates slightly as she breaks the silence. 

Beau looks over at her. 

“We knew her,” Jester insists. “Yasha. She wasn’t like that.”

Beau looks away. She chews on her lip, and Jester watches the play of teeth on skin, the way Beau’s incisors leave momentary indents in her flesh. _Beau has the right idea_ , she thinks, biting down on her own lip hard enough to draw blood. It feels _good_ , the way the muchness in her head recedes for a moment into a single point of sharp white pain.  
  
“I don’t know, Jessie,” Beau says finally. She sighs, looks up at the ceiling, chews on her lip some more. “I don’t think it was _our_ Yasha,” she says. “I mean, I don’t think she’s been on the side of the Angel of Irons this whole time and just, like, lying to us. But … I don’t know if she was mind controlled, like her will was subsumed to Obann’s, or if she was just … forced back into a past self or something. If that’s who Yasha was at some point, even if it’s not who she is anymore. I just don’t know.”  
  
It’s not the reassuring answer Jester had hoped for. In fact, it might be even worse than what she’s been imagining: Yasha gone, Yasha dead, Yasha’s body an empty vessel for Obann’s dying wishes. If Yasha is still in there somewhere, trapped in her head or in her past, then perhaps they can get her back, it’s true, and that’s a spot of hope, but to imagine sitting at the back of your own mind watching another’s will use your body to do terrible things, or to imagine losing years of your life, memories of friends and adventures, only to become again the person you were at your unhappiest: those are worse than to imagine dying, or even being brought back as one of the mindless undead.

Jester wraps her arms around herself. “I’m scared for her,” she admits, voice high and teary. “Our Yasha, I mean.” There’s a storm in her head, and it’s stronger than hail now. It’s a thunderstorm at sea, and vicious waves have tossed Jester overboard and now she’s being pulled inexhaustibly towards the maelstrom, which will suck her under the water to drown in the ocean of her own anxieties for Yasha. She needs … something to take her mind off not-our-Yasha’s terrible grin, off the empty way that not-our-Yasha looked at her, nothing at all like the Yasha who Jester’s shared watches with, the Yasha who did her best to shoulder Lorenzo’s torture for as long as she could so Fjord and Jester wouldn’t have to, the Yasha who talked about bringing flowers to her wife’s grave with the kind of grief in her voice that gave Jester just a momentary glimpse into what real love must be like, fierce and unfailing, nothing at all like her flirtations with Fjord. She needs something unthinking.

She looks up at Beau, remembers how, in the aftermath of the rescue of Jester, Fjord, and Yasha from the Iron Shepherds, Beau had lost herself between that dwarven woman’s legs and come back to them in the morning seeming more settled. She remembers how many of her mother’s clients have come to her mother distraught, offering the Ruby all that they have in exchange for taking their pain away: in her parlor with her listening skills and the sweet compassion of her voice, of course, but also in her bed. She looks at Beau and she gets an idea.

“Can I kiss you?”

Beau looks suddenly at her, and both Jester’s breath and her thoughts are knocked out of her by the blue of Beau’s eyes. It takes her a moment to gather herself together, remember to breathe again, before she can piece back together what she’s asked and elaborate on it. “I just … I need to stop thinking, Beau,” she explains. “It’s so crowded and busy in my head and it hurts and I –” 

She closes her eyes, hoping to trap the tears she can feel stinging at their corners before they fall. It doesn’t work; she can feel several tears slip from her eyes and begin to tremble their way down her cheeks. “I just –” she says, “it’s so  _ much _ and it hurts.” 

She feels hands on the sides of her face and blinks her eyes open, reaching beneath the arms on either side of her to swipe at her damp cheeks. It’s Beau, of course, who is holding her head, Beau with her brow furrowed and her lips slightly parted in a frown. “Jester,” she says, serious as anything. “We’ll get through this, I promise. We’ll get Yasha back or die trying, okay?”

“I don’t want to die trying,” Jester sniffs.

“I guess we’ll have to get her back then.” Beau offers a sad laugh. “Works for me. For now –” she glances over at their sleeping party members, then back at Jester. Her eyes are soft. “You can kiss me, if you want,” she says.

Jester reaches out a hand and places it on the back of Beau’s neck. Inexperience can’t be the reason this helps everyone it helps empty their minds, but it’s helpful for her; her worried thoughts recede slightly as she concentrates on not messing this up. She leans towards Beau, tilting her head slightly to the right as she does so.

Beau’s eyes flutter shut. Jester watches as Beau’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, and feels a sudden rush of affection for her. She isn’t sure why Beau is doing this, isn’t even completely sure what gave  _ her _ the idea to do this, but she doesn’t allow herself to think about it, just flows in the direction her gut is telling her to go, closing her eyes and leaning in and kissing Beau.

Beau’s mouth is soft and warm and full, and although she had just sat and watched as Jester had leaned in toward her, she presses back as soon as Jester’s lips meet hers, guiding Jester’s uncertain mouth with her own. Jester feels as though her nerve endings are alight; they sparkle like fireworks, a far more pleasurable vibration throughout her body than the clatter of lightning-struck bones.

Beau lets out a soft moan. Her hands fall from Jester’s cheeks to clutch at her hips, and Jester can feel in the way Beau digs her fingers into the fat there that Beau needs this too, needs to feel bright and close and mindless. She lets Beau tug on her upper lip, and, when her thoughts begin to press in at the walls of her mind again –  _ is Yasha okay I miss Yasha I wish Yasha could be here with us too  _ – she pulls Beau’s body against hers even as their mouths have to part for breath. 

Beau rests her forehead against Jester’s. “Oh god,” she says, smiling vaguely. “Jessie …”

“Do you want to fuck?”

Beau pulls back suddenly, and Jester adds to her list of worries the worry that she’s overstepped the bounds of what Beau is willing to do for comfort in a trying time. But Beau’s eyes are dark, her pupils nearly swallowing her irises. It’s a look Jester has seen before only through the crack of a barely open door as men and women have fixed it on her mother, and it sends a pulse of searing heat through her to be its object. She wonders distantly if this is about more than just Yasha for Beau, too.

“Yeah,” Beau says. “Yeah.” She runs her hands back through her hair, tugging on the ends of her hair ribbon to tighten it. “Do you want to, or should I – or we could both, I guess, you know, simultaneously –” she stops, cocks her head slightly. “Have you ever –?”  
  
Jester shakes her head. “Not even with a guy,” she admits.  


Beau chuckles. “Well, that makes two of us.”

“But you and that dwarf lady, Keg –”

“That makes two of us not with a guy,” Beau clarifies.

“Oh.” Shame rises hot to Jester’s cheeks, and she giggles. “Duh. Sorry.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Beau says. “Just … y’know. Tell me if you have any questions, I guess? Or obviously if you want me to stop, just tell me to stop and I will.” She taps at Jester’s right ankle, and Jester unfolds her criss-crossed legs, spreading them slightly so that Beau is kneeling between them.   
  
Beau looks her up and down. There’s another look in her eyes that Jester recognizes from years of spying on her mother, the look of someone in awe of the woman who stands (or sits, as the case may be) before them, of the privilege they must have to be standing (or kneeling, as the case may be) before her. It’s a look Jester has dreamed of receiving, but not one she ever has, and gods, in this moment Jester _wants_.

“Please, Beau,” Jester says, jiggling her legs impatiently.

Beau sits back on her heels. “Stop?” she asks.

Jester shakes her head. “No. Please. Touch me.”

Beau reaches out and drags her fingertips down Jester’s cheek to her jawline. “Lie back,” she says. Jester does, propping herself up on her elbows so she can see Beau. “Lift your hips for a sec,” Beau says.

Jester does. Beau grabs her own folded bedroll and places it under Jester’s ass, and Jester falls back onto it.

“Again,” Beau says, “for a sec.” She winces. “Sorry. I just – you know, your pants are in the way.”   
  
“Oh, right.” There’s a little bit more – shame? anxiety? – than Jester expected – she  _ knows _ sex, in  theory. She feels acutely aware of the situation: herself lying on the floor with Beau between her legs, looking at her like a gift, a look which her mother bears with such dignity but which sends fire coursing through her own veins. She closes her eyes and gives a tiny shake of her head, reaching up to push the thoughts away with thumb and middle finger.

“Do you want to stop?”  
  
“No.” Jester lifts her hips again.

Beau leans forward and reaches up Jester’s skirt to pull her pants and smallclothes down. She rolls them up and sets them aside, a gentlewoman if there ever was one, before lowering herself to the floor.

“You good?” she asks, glancing up at Jester.

Jester nods, pulling her skirts up towards her to clear room for Beau. “Yeah,” she says. “Beau, please.”

Beau grins, nods. She drags herself forward and presses a kiss to the inside of Jester’s thigh. The skin tingles where she does, and Jester breathes out a little sigh of pleasure, pushing her hips towards Beau. Beau obliges her, nosing the seam of her thigh for only a moment before pushing aside the hood of Jester’s clit with her nose and pressing a brief kiss to the organ itself. Jester inhales sharply. She’s not unaccustomed to touch down there, but Beau’s mouth is, perhaps unsurprisingly, nothing like her own fingers, even more so when Beau takes Jester’s clit into the warmth of that mouth and begins to suck, to lave her tongue over the bundle of nerves at Jester’s core.

“Oh my gods, Beau,” Jester moans, and when she imagines Yasha now, it is not meat-puppet Yasha, trapped-and-terrified-in-her-own-head Yasha, Orphanmaker-forgetting-the-years-Yasha- remembers-and-remembering-the-years-Yasha’s-forgotten Yasha, but sweet, quiet, wonderful Yasha, her Yasha, their Yasha, kissing Jester’s lips, her collarbone, kneading the flesh of Jester’s breasts with her large, calloused hands. Jester takes her own breast at the same time as Beau slips two fingers into her. She cries out.

“Beau!”

Beau’s fingers and mouth both disappear, and she ducks out from under the skirt that had fallen partway over her head when Jester had taken to her breast, wincing and dark-cheeked. “Too much?” she says. “I’m sorry, Jessie. I should have asked.”

“No.” Jester shakes her head. “Not too much. Just. Enough.”

Beau begins to duck back down. Now that she’s imagined it, though, Jester wants kissing again, and she reaches out to Beau’s shoulder to stop her. “I want you to touch me,” she says, “but I want to kiss you. Will that work?”

“Yeah,” Beau says. “Turn on your side?”

Jester does, and Beau comes up alongside her, meeting Jester’s mouth with hers. Jester closes her eyes, letting sensation wash over her: Beau’s lips, cool from Jester’s flesh, Beau’s hand, thumb stroking Jester’s clit, index and middle fingers making their way inside Jester again to pump in and out of her, Beau’s erection pressing into her thigh, and then Beau’s hand there, too, as Beau reaches down to touch herself. Jester wants to help, wants to give to Beau in the same way Beau is giving to her, but she’s not sure quite how she might angle her arm to get it between them, so she allows herself to settle for tracing Beau’s spine with her fingertips, tangling her fingers into Beau’s hair (which is, if possible, even softer than she’d imagined).

Climax comes over her as never before; as her body clenches, her entire mind goes hot, blank, blissful white for an instant. Beau coaxes her through it, drawing shudder after shudder out of Jester until Jester feels boneless. Although she can see stormclouds rolling in on the horizon, the night sky of her brain is for the moment clear and beautifully starry.

“Thanks,” Jester says. “Thanks, Beau.”

“No problem.”

Beau reaches back down between them, and Jester follows this time, wrapping her fist around Beau’s and following Beau’s lead as she fucks, kissing her slow and rhythmic all the while until Beau grunts and spills seed and goes soft.

“Thanks, Jessie,” she says, her voice hoarse. “I needed this.”

“Me, too.”

She dresses and Beau changes pants in silence and then they sit back down together. Jester rests her head against Beau’s shoulder, and Beau runs her fingers along the ridges of Jester’s horn. Worries begin to creep back into her brain, and she wraps both arm and tail around Beau’s waist; Beau takes her own waist and massages the flesh that rests below her fingertips.

“Beau?” Jester says.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad it was you. I think maybe I would like it to be you again.”

“Oh!” Beau says. Jester can feel the heat radiating off her cheeks; her awkwardness is almost palpable, and  _ so _ endearing. “Oh. Yeah, that’s. Fine.”

“You and Yasha,” Jester decides. “When she gets back. You and me and her.”

“Jester,” Beau says, voice somehow both lightly mocking and thoroughly sincere, “you are the most incredible woman I’ve ever met.”

“Because I’m suggesting a threesome with Ya-shaa?”

“That doesn’t hurt,” Beau admits. “I love her, too.”

“Too?” Jester teases. 

Beau fixes her with a look, eyebrows raised and stare unwavering, and Jester knows how to read  Beau as easily as a picture book. It’s a look that means:  _ of course I love you _ ,  _ Jessie _ .  _ Now and forever _ . It makes Jester squirm, unsure how to handle that kind of devotion, unsure if she can live up to it, but it makes her want to, too. There's a word for that, she knows, for what Beau makes her feel, what she thinks Yasha could, too. She's not sure if she's ready to confront it yet. But she thinks she could be, someday, if it means Beau will keep looking at her like that, keep kissing her. If it means she could someday kiss Yasha as well.

“Yeah,” Jester says, thinking of Yasha, her gentle smile and the way she listens, seriously, like nothing you could say is stupid. There's no way around the word. It's the only way to do Yasha justice. “Yeah. I love her, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments very much appreciated!


End file.
